


Recompense

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Series: Requests/challenges/etc [1]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Dom/sub, F/M, Kink Negotiation, Kissing, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough Sex, Scratching, Slapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23202703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: He hadn't expected to fall in love again. Tried to rail against it.One can only fight what one wants for so long before submission.
Relationships: Pelleas/Nimue
Series: Requests/challenges/etc [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673452
Kudos: 6





	Recompense

Part 1 - Siren Songs

It started with a whisper.

Melodies, he thought: haunting, beautiful things that compelled him to follow.

"Hey hey hey," it was Gawain, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him back to their discussion.

His warriors looked far more alarmed - Gawain, despite his youth, had seen more than most of Camelot's more seasoned Knights on and off the battlefield - but took Gawain's quick pivot back as a clue things were fine.

\--

Whispers kept getting louder and louder.

He tried, every time, to follow, to seek their source, but each time found someone stopping him. Gawain, more often than not, but sometimes one of his men, terrified, stories of Pellinore's madness not yet forgotten. He could tell they wondered if this was how Pellinors started his decline.

They were too real, sounded too beautiful, to be anything but real. 

"We are here to seek the Lady Ettard," Gaeain sat him down one evening, "nothing more."

What Gawain had meant was, _I am not here to help you with the supernatural._

\--

It finally happened, late one night.

They had found the Lady Ettard's tent by a lakeside, predictably surrounded by countless others.

He waited until the Lady - the Lady he wanted so badly to call his own - slipped away from her camp to catch a moment to herself. 

"My Lady -" he began.

Then it started up again.

Loud, this time, so loud he could not imagine how no one else heard it.

As he walked toward it, he was dimly aware the Lady Ettard was screaming at him to stay gone.

\--

Gawain watched them disappear beneath the surface of the lake, Pelleas and Nimue.

"Goddamnit," Gawain muttered before rolling over to go back to sleep.

\--

The next morning he awoke to find himself naked in his tent, soaked clothes hung to dry.

He didn't feel as if he had been drinking.

He got up and examined his clothes - they were nearly dry and the morning was still early. He could, he figured, go back to bed and by the time he got up again.

He heart his tent open, then Gawain's voice.

"Nimue," Gawain was pleading, "this isn't necessary."

"Turn around and go back to your tent a d pretend this isn't happening," she snapped, "or your livelihood is next."

Gawain threw his hands in a surrendering gesture and left.

"Uh," he blinked several times, acutely aware of his nakedness and her anger.

"How dare you?" she snarled.

He recognized that voice. Even with the anger, the rage, it held, it directed at him, he knew that voice.

He wanted so badly to hear its melodies again.

"Uh," he repeated.

"You chase a woman across the country, and for what?" she was near screaming, "Whose affections are worth so much that her will and wishes are discarded."

"I-" he tried to say something, to defend himself, found he had forgotten why any of this happened in the first place. 

She let out a frustrated sound that sounded like a warning growl.

Picked up his sword.

He took a step back, palms raised to either side of his ribcage, palms facing her, fingers splayed.

She took a step forward.

He took a step back.

Forward.

Back.

Forward. 

Back.

Forward.

He had nowhere to go. 

"If you ever," her eyes were full of fury, " **ever** try to supress the will of another woman," she held the tip of his sword to where his jaw met his neck, "I will know, and I will find you, and I will kill you."

"Yes?" he tried a word. It seemed like a good word.

She laughed, one syllable, somehow better than anything he had ever heard.

She twisted the sword, just enough for the tip to twist his skin, the smallest bit of blood blooming around it. 

She withdrew the sword. 

He whimpered.

Her eyes glanced downward.

"Oh," she realized how she could keep him for herself _and_ never have to worry about Ettard's safety.

She withdrew the sword, point just shy of his face.

"Your sword's dirty," she told him.

He lucked the blood off.

They both shivered.

"Don't think I'm done telling you off," she said as she tossed his sword to the side.

She took a step back, larger than her steps forward.

He followed.

She shoved his shoulders.

He let himself fall backwards, mostly controlled ass and elbows on the ground, torso still angled upward so he could see her.

She pounced. 

"Say no and we can go back to the yelling at you," she said, still standing.

"Both?" hope dared to join that one word.

She laughed again, a dark thing this time. 

She spread herself over him, guided herself down until he was buried to the hilt within her.

He gasped, head falling back, fingers scrabbling for purchase in the hard dirt. 

She took control.

"Gods," she said as she rode him, "Is this what you wanted? Someone to take your life over? Someone to show you how to surrender?"

She couldn't understand the words in his reply, but they sounded like good things.

"I said," she was smiling, "is this what you wanted?"

Another incomprehensible noise.

She slapped him across the face. 

He whimpered, but not in pain.

"Yesss," he finally managed.

"Good boy," she praised.

She braced herself with the heel of both of her palms on his hips, nails digging into his skin, and picked up her pace.

He came with a short, barking scream.

"I," he started to say something.

Then nothing.

"Oh dear," her expression was smug, "have I worn you out, dear Knight?"

\--

He woke again well after the sun had come over the horizon.

He was alone.

\----

Part 2 - Truth Only Whispers

It started long before this.

At least, that was what he tried to convince himself of.

He was not high-born. He did not have family at court. He did not have the schooling, the instruction, most of the others had. He had had to scrape by and claw his way into their ranks.

And yet.

And yet for all his merit he never quite belonged. Never quite learned how to blend in.

So when he found himself alone - again - when he found himself with no official duties, he told himself it was by design.

That was becoming an increasingly difficult thing to do.

She - Nimue, he learned her name was - turned out to be familiar with the innermost workings of Camelot. 

She knew them because she'd been forced to.

She'd endured horrors at the hands of Merlin, endured them so she could secure her freedom. Make sure he would never return to haunt her again.

And she'd found him chasing a woman across the continent.

Gods, what must she think of him?

He made himself scarce.

Several times, he found her with Gawain, the two of them huddled together, voices quiet besides peels of laughter.

He found her happy, without him.

He came to convince himself she'd had sex with him as a warning.

She'd fucked him so he'd learn what it was to feel safe and then be abandoned to fend for yourself despite everything about your life remaining unchanging.

It was, he supposed, what he deserved.

\--

The Christmas feast was supposed to be a happy one. They had, after all, made it halfway through the darkness.

Gawain, he could understand why that Knight was sulking, but Gawain wasn't. 

Gawain was very, very drunk and standing on a table, making a show of reenacting what happened to him under the axe of the Green Knight, a show so elaborate despite being the only actor that even the King and Queen were enthralled. 

Being very drunk, he decided, was an excellent idea. 

He swiped an mostly full wineskin from a nearby table.

Removed the cork. 

Lifted it to his lips.

Drank from it until he needed to stop, needed to breaths. 

He took a few deep, gasping breaths.

Repeated the long drink.

Gasped for air.

Did it a third time.

"Share," someone he had never seen before swiped the wine skin from him.

The cork was forgotten on the table.

\--

He had managed to forget how time worked.

He had no ling it had been since he'd decided so much unwatered wine was a good idea.

He had no idea how long it had been since the night in the tent that had changed his life.

They both seemed like a lifetime ago.

They both seemed like they were still happening.

He stumbled out of the feast hall, legs not quite steady, steps not quite even. The hallway pitched and rolled along with his vision.

He nearly ran into her on the stairwell back to his room.

"You," she breathed.

"Unfortunately," he admitted to the shockingly embarrassing truth of being him.

"You're drunk," she said.

"Maybe," he didn't know anything at that moment.

Except.

Except.

"I love you."

Silence.

"Shit," he cursed himself, tried to will the stone of the stairs to swallow him whole.

He'd heard a story, once, of a king whose touch turned all things to gold.

Camelot was rooted in magic. Maybe Knights whose affliction of love turned out to be rooted in actual feeling rather than enchantment - he truly thought it was, the music and melodies had been his rationale - could start turning into leaa glamorous statues.

He felt just as rooted to the spot.

Until her face fell.

He forced himself to keep climbing.

Her footsteps followed.

"Wait," she finally said a second word, "you are not alone in your love."

"Bullshit," he opened the door to his room. 

She followed him in.

Lit his oil lamp for him. Probably a good thing, given his general state.

She had whispered it to life rather than used anything more conventional.

"I mean it," she said as she put the lamp down on his bedside table.

Silence.

And then.

He: "I don't deserve it."

She: "Don't deserve love?"

He: "Especially not from you."

Silence.

And then.

He: "I never should have followed her."

A pause.

And then.

He: "You were right. I'm horrible."

She: "I never said that."

He: "It was implied."

And then.

He: "I don't deserve it."

She: "You said that."

He: "Meant it as many times as I've said it."

She: "How many times have you said it?"

He: "With every breath since."

And then.

She: "I do love you."

He: "You shouldn't."

She: "Why not?"

He: "After what I did to Ettard."

She: "Have you changed, though?"

He: "Does anyone, really?"

And then.

And then he slept, a mix of alcohol and shame sapping any energy he'd had.

\--

He woke feeling even worse.

He tried to blame the wine.

He failed to blame the wine. Despite the roiling of his stomach and the pounding of his head, he knew the wine was not to blame.

"Hey," her voice came from the doorway.

"Oh god," he tried to hide his head under his blanket only to realize his bedding was all under him.

"Did you mean it?" she asked.

"All of it," he answered honestly.

She frowned but crossed the room.

"Let me help you," she told him.

"You're going to leave again," he tried to deter her.

Instead, she accepted the challenge.

\-----

Part 3 - The Will to Submit

It started in bits and pieces. 

He stopped reaching for the wineskin when his feelings of failure and unworthiness tried to consume him.

He stopped telling her that he didn't deserve her love. 

She started missing him when he was away.

And then.

She: We should be wed.

He agreed.

\--

Seasons passed.

War came.

He returned, exhausted, a new scar networking from his collarbone, across his shoulder, teasing his upper arm.

She: I missed you.

He: I survived for you.

He took her to bed that night, all the fear, all the horrors he had seen, all the moments he had worried he wouldn't make it home poured into every thrust.

She rolled him over, her strength pitted against his surprise, mounted him, paused halfway down his shaft.

"I missed you," she repeated.

He swore, a long string invoking forgotten gods, arched his back to meet her.

Begged to be able to feel more of her envelope him.

She hummed, a thoughtful thing, then obliged.

Squeezed.

He came, so suddenly, so forcefully, so caught off guard. 

He apologized.

She asked what for.

"You can hardly be satisfied," he muttered.

"Let me show you," she told him.

She laid down next to him.

Grabbed his hand. Placed hers over his, palm to the back of his hand, fingers matching.

Guided his hand down, his fingers sinking easily into her wetness. 

She guided his fingers, showed him how to use her clit as an instrument of pleasure.

She released his hand, squirming, clawing at the bedding, at him, at anything she could reach, each breath happening faster than the last.

Her entire body quivered as she came, thighs clenching around his hand such that he could not move. 

His middle and index finger rolled against each other, causing her to cry out, a noise of pure pleasure. 

"Pelleas," she gasped.

"Nimue," he rolled over to be as close to her as possible.

She relaxed her thighs and replaced her hand on top of his. Guided his hand to his mouth, then rolled both of their hands so hers was against his lips.

He kissed her knuckles, each in turn, then licked, then took each finger into his mouth, savoring the flavor.

"It's been too long," he said around one of her fingers.

"It's rude to talk with your mouth full," she teased.

"Then I fear I will continue to be rude," he grinned, "because I have missed every part of you."

He kissed each knuckle again, then up her arm, then from shoulder, to collar bone, down her chest, teeth grazing skin as he went. She met his kisses with little gasps.

He used his hands to spread her legs again and kissed his way as deep into her as he could before allowing his tongue to find its way into the mix.

She was wet, needy, her scent intoxicating. He breathed in as much ad he could, allowing everything that was _her_ to flood his senses, to replace every thought that dared to intrude on them.

She was close again, he could tell, her nails digging into his shoulders, scratching. He thought he felt skin break, but could not find reason to worry.

He switched his hands such that his arms reached under her thighs and wrapped back around, gripping the top of the sides of her hips.

Again, she squeezed with her thighs as she came, this time fixing his head in place.

Even muffled, he felt he could live forever in the noises she was making.

She tapped his shoulder twice, signaling him to come lay beside her.

He did.

"I missed that, too," she said as she snuggled into him.

He made a contented, humming sound and gathered her on his arms. 

Silence.

And then.

"Do you like it," she asked, "when I take control like that?"

"I like pleasing you," he told her.

Silence. 

And then

She: You're hard again.

He: I _missed_ you. All of you.

Silence.

And then.

She gently shoved at his scarred shoulder, telling him to roll onto his back.

He did.

She: Let me show you something. 

He: Will it please you?

She: Yes.

She straddled his hips so that his cock stood tall just in front of her.

He propped himself up on his elbows, curious.

"I love you," she told him

"And I, you," he offered a lazy smile.

She licked her palm once, twice, a third time, then wrapped her hand around his dick.

She offered slow strokes, twisting her wrist, squeezing just enough to cause him to hiss.

Still, it was a pleased sound.

He bucked his hips more than tried to thrust into her hand, desperate, wanting.

She let him.

His pace picked up.

"Nimue," his voice was strained, "please."

And then. 

She wrapped her thumb and index finger around the base of his cock and squeezed, hard. 

He found himself so far back from thinking he was going to come again that he let out a strangled cry.

He whined, a reedy sound he would have been mortified to have loosed in front of anyone else. 

And then. 

"Let me return the favor," she purred as she scooted back just far enough to be able to put the tip of his cock in her mouth.

"Never - ah! - an oblig-" his word was cut off as she started to take more of him into her mouth.

His back arched again, more carefully, the situational awareness he had left trying not to accidentally choke her.

She hollowed her cheeks and sucked, tongue swirling as much as it could reach. She could taste precome, hear him start to babble.

Thumb and index finger and a little pressure. 

"Nimue!" he shouted, still not expecting to be denied release.

She sucked again. 

His arms gave out as he made a series of sounds neither of them had heard before.

She sat back up, making an obscene pop as her mouth came free.

"Oh behave," she told him with a teasing swat to his inner thigh.

He gasped and his head snapped up, eyes wide.

"Good?" She asked, a note of caution clawing at the edges of the single word question. 

"More than," his voice was shaky but sure.

She raised her hand again, stopped when it reached the high point of the swing, locked eyes with him.

He nodded.

She struck again, harder this time.

He gasped.

"Please," he said before she could even check in, "again. Please."

She did.

Then the other side of the same thigh.

Then with her fingers just barely angled, nails raking his skin in the follow-through.

"Nimue," he swore he had never been this hard in his life, babbled on about how he felt he may explode, begged to be inside her. 

"Pelleas," she was surprised to find her own voice strained.

He whined again, unable to hold still.

She returned to where she started, his shaft just barely touching her, knees on either side of his hips, heels of her feet bracing her own thighs.

"Beg," she commanded him, "I want to hear you beg."

"Nimue," he followed the instruction, "please."

She: Please what?

He: I want to be inside you.

She chuckled, a brief sound.

And then.

She _moved_.

She was up, then down again, this time with him inside of her. 

"This?" She asked.

"Yesss," he hissed, hands flying to her hips and then gripping her hips, fingers sinking into flesh. 

She smiled, a thing blending promise and danger.

Rolled them over so she was on her back.

He made a surprised sound.

"Or this?" she asked.

"Both," he managed to say.

He leaned forward to kiss her neck, then bit the hollow of her jaw. She gasped, a pleased thing. He bit again.

Then again.

And again.

His cock twitched and she whimpered, her control beginning to fracture. 

"Nimue," he murmured into her skin.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" she couldn't hide the traces of awe in your voice, "To bury yourself inside me so far outside your normal edges of control?"

The noise he made sounded like a yes, sounded like his own control shattering.

He began to thrust.

"Pelleas, fuck, yes," she said.

"Need you," he grunted, "Nimue, I-" he warned.

Thumb. Forefinger. Moving faster than a human body should be able to move.

He unleashed a string of curses, tears stinging the corners of his vision.

"Why?" he whimpered.

"I need you," she raised an eyebrow, "to tell me exactly what you need."

"Need you," he whined.

"Need me how?" she pressed.

"Need to be inside you," he tried to thrust despite her vice grip, "need to please you, to feel you. Need to -" speech broke off, a strained sound taking its place, "need to fuck you, to feel you, your cunt, your hand, your nails, your mouth, your teeth. Fuck, Nimue, I," he whined again, "I need all of you."

"Good boy," she purred, then released him, then commanded, "Come take what you want."

He got as far as the first word of that command.

He collapsed under the force of his orgasm, entire body pressed against hers, reflexes still thrusting through the last of it despite having no awareness in any other senses.

A moment of silence.

And then.

She: You back with me?

He: Don't think I moved.

She chuckled, fingers combing through his hair. He made a soft, contented sound.

Silence.

And then.

"How are you feeling, love?" she asked.

"Amazing," he breathed, "better than I knew I could feel."

"Good," she smiled, one hand still carding through his hair. With her other, she traced the scratches that stood out raw against skin and scar alike.

He shivered and then snuggled into her, leading with his chin, until his face was tucked into the side of her neck. 

His breathing was still fast, still evening out, but his body relaxed bit by bit, melted against hers.

She murmured sweet nothings and he made happy little sighs with each one.

His breathing evened back out.

"I love you," she told him.

"I love you," he echoed. 

Silence.

And then.

"I'd like to do that again," he said, "Not right now-now. But again."

"Good," she smiled, hugged him closer, "Me, too."

Silence.

And then.

She: How are you feeling?

He: Like I've learned more about myself and about _feeling_ in one evening than I've learned the rest of my life put together.

He: How are _you_ feeling?

She: Like we have even more learning to do.

Laughter shook his entire body, vibrations making their way through her body as well before she laughed, too.

Laughter made its way back to an easy silence.

Much to learn, indeed, she thought as he let himself drift off to sleep, face still pressed into her neck.


End file.
